Movable Feast

Saint Rafa's Fish

This was my St. Pierre had at Rafa's. It was so simple - nothing to it. No sides - no garnish - I think Rafa even came over and took away my bread basket before he brought over my fish. Grilled a la plancha - nothing more than olive oil and sea salt. He gets his fish from fisherman friends fresh each day - and uses them only fresh that day. What he can't sell he cooks up for family dinner. What they themselves don't eat that night - basura - trash. But more often than not he'll run out of fish that night - a tight operation. His fish are ugly - evil-faced sea monters - gaping mouths, murderous eyes. Nothing like the St. Pierres we get in Paris. Those you could watch in a pretty fishtank. These are so ugly that you know they've got to taste good - really good. When Rafa himself slipped that plate in front of me, I sat back in awe. The first thing you notice is a good fresh, fried aroma that you want to eat out of the air - try that for a positive memory-inducing scent. Then you start by working your way carefully around the tail and the spines along the back - sucking each internal-organ-endangering spike completely clean of delicate meat and traces of gelatin - a prelude of what's to come. Then the top filet - an easy, meaty reward. And then the head. I swear Rafa told me at least three times - before he even made a move to give me a fish - that I had to eat the head - that it's the best part. He looked deep in my eyes - not wanting to give up a precious St. Pierre to a non-believer - otherwise I think he would have suggested some nice safe slices of tuna tail instead. And the head - stop your snickering - it was the best part. Buried treasures - discovered and savoured - though I must admit I'm not an eyeball fan. And then still reeling - the bottom filet - bare handed - silverware and so-called civilised eating long forgotten. A few notes on Rafa's cooking - he cleans his hot plancha with vinegar - any cheap vinegar will do he says; and he cooks with olive oil that he's just brought up to a boil - and keeps warm on the stove in a pot - he says that way your fish will taste like fish - not olive oil; and salt - he likes Spanish sea salt - any good one but nothing special. I think the story of how the fish got its name - and black spots on its body - is that St. Pierre once grabbed one but released it when it protested - and forever marked this fish with his saintly thumbprints. To Senor Rafa - I'm a believer.

Oriol Balaguer

These are the individual wedding cakes that Oriol Balaguer did for Oriol Castro's wedding. Biscuit layered with white chocolate mousse, covered in white chocolate mousse, spraygunned with dark chocolate, garnished with a dark chocolate spoon, topped with a quenelle of dark chocolate mousse, and plated with apricot puree that was applied in the shape of a spoon. For those of you who are not pastry nerds, Oriol Balaguer is one of the top pastry chefs in the world. Thanks to Ted for the heads-up on his new website - mentioned on eGullet. My only complaint about the new site is that it doesn't do him justice - OB is a major hottie. He's based in Barcelona and just opened a shop in Tokyo - the first by a Spanish pastry chef in Japan - a big deal since that's long been the domain of Zee French. OB also did a big wedding presentation piece that I mentioned here before - a meter-high and meter-wide chocolate sculpture that looked like the weathered beams that fence the front of El Bulli - holding one large version of the little cakes. But by the time I got to that - much later in the inebriated evening - it had already been decimated. But earlier in the afternoon, we plated these beauties up - in the basement of the castle where the wedding was held in Taragonna, Spain. And we tried to keep them beautiful - because delicate and delicious as they were, they were sons-of-bitches to plate up. Every single slightest touch showed up - with the dark over the light cream. We finally figured out that the best way was to take two small spatulas, carefully lift, then position, then plate. But with so little surface space - every inch was taken up by plates - sometimes we had to carry a little cake almost across the room. It was like some kind of nerve-wracking carnival game. And of course, just as I was in the middle of this precarious operation, who should come down and check out the scene? Oriol Balaguer himself. All I could think was "Please don't fall you fucking little cake!" And then he comes closer to watch me over my shoulder as I plate it. And then all I could think was "Please don't fall you fucking little cake!" Original thoughts were lost on me at that moment. But victory was had and all was well. OB adjusted the apricot puree - which we then had to madly dash and correct on all 240 plates. There were a few cake casualties - mostly from transport in the boxes - they were done at his place and brought down finished - cracked spoons, fallen quenelles, etc. And in the basement of the castle, we descended on those like starving savages - chocolate-mousse-quenelle-eating savages.

El Bulli Tasting Menu - Family Style

This was our last family meal - on our last night of service at El Bulli this season. Penne bolognese - with three kinds of cheese - we were clearing out the walk-in - parmesan, emmental, and a very blue bleu; with rosemary roasted chicken and potatoes; and as a special treat - pinwheel plates of paper-thin jamon. At the very top of the picture, you can barely make out the bar that holds up the bull's head - the infamous carved wood bull's head in the kitchen - I think you can see the bull's chin. My family dinner table was the pass - we covered it in black fabric to protect the wood. I could almost never finish my serving of family dinner food - very generous helpings which we pre-plated if we were on dinner duty. But some of the guys would go back for thirds - sometimes fourths. The two most popular family meals were probably tied at hamburgers and egg rolls - served with sweet and sour sauce. The least favourite - cabrito - kid/baby goat. Amazing quality - trimmings from the menu's sous-vide cooked kid that seared to finish with a crispy skin. Ours was usually served up as a simple, saucy stew. Very tasty but we had it maybe twice a week. We discussed how ironic it was that most people would never even taste meat of that quality once in their lives.

Rafa´s

Almost everyone who comes to El Bulli for dinner also makes a pilgrimage to Rafa´s. Ferran always says it´s his favourite restaurant in the world. And I finally got a chance to go for dinner last night. The first time I tried was the first night I moved down to Roses from the camp at Cala Montjoi. I was on my way over and then it started raining and I had to move all my laundry inside - two huge racks of laundry. Clothes dryers are perceived as an indulgent American luxury here. By the time that was done I missed my window at Rafa´s. The next week I tried to reserve - but that´s when I found out that if Rafa does not have fresh fish - off the boat that morning - or evening sometimes - he does not open. And another time I finally had the reservation, he had the fish, but I had to change my day off and work. So last night the stars aligned and I finally had dinner at the maestro´s. A plate of escargots - but Spanish, Costa Brava style. Whereas in France escargots are really just a vehicle for lots of very good melted butter - here, the escargots are sea snails that look like little conch shells, filled with firm meat, and chez Rafa served with a simple vinaigrette that he makes a la minute. It was the only condiment or sauce last night. Then it was the infamous espardenyes. They are a local specialty - and loved or loathed. Basically small sea cucumbers. We did two espardenyes dishes at El Bulli - one with the real deal, sliced transparently thin. The other a faux espardenyes - which was actually that crunchy, fried seaweed and rice snack. Rafa himself delivered the plate over - and looked over his shoulder to see my reaction. I´d specifically asked for them first - and I think he wanted to see how I´d receive them. Heaven. The aroma alone - they were done a la plancha - so carried smoky char. Just a plate scattered with what could be a marriage of scallops and squid - in long, thin, flat strips. I really could have done with just half the portion - which is an option because Rafa sells by weight. Normally it´s 100 grams - but you can have more or less - makes no difference to him. And the two langoustines and two gambas that followed might not sound like much - but they were such intense experiences - sucking the heads of all four was like freebasing the ocean. And I hadn´t decided earlier on my fish - it was either the monkfish - which is another Bay of Roses catch - and as ugly as a fish can get - or the San Pedro/St. Pierre/John Dory - which have huge heads here, unlike the sleek oval fish you find in France. Rafa had said he preferred the San Pedro - but that I HAD to eat the head. So he decided for me. With the last gambas brain in my mouth he delivered a beautiful San Pedro for one. Or a Chinese family of five really. Again, just done a la plancha - with crusty golden patches - breathtaking. My method for eating the St. Pierre was going for the top filet first, working through the deliciously gelatinous head, then peeling off the spine for the juicy bottom filet. I was going to skip dessert but they had an artisanal recuit - a soft, light, fresh goat´s milk cheese - with a generous pour of mountain honey. Drinks during dinner were two cervezas, and a cortado cafe post. And while I hung out by the fish case they served me up three rich slivers of their pumpkin confit coca - a cross between a puff pastry and pizza dough tart - with pine nuts on top. Between orders Rafa and I had a chance to talk - and gossip. He is an amazing man. Five tables, opens only if he has fresh fish, and whistles and sings to himself while he cooks. I was afraid that the cult hype might have affected him. It has not - not at all. I asked if I could have a picture of him at his plancha - and he invited me back into his tiny kitchen. The two cooks, he said. That was one of the greatest compliments from one of the greatest chefs that I have ever met anywhere in my life.

El Bulli After Party

The Big Dinner Out, yesterday morning, and last night all blurred together. It was a historic night of heroic eating and drinking - the likes of which even many of the international heroic drinkers present have never seen. It started with a great dinner - a little resto-hostal joint here down in Roses - will walk by tonight and grab a card for the name. Anchovies on toasted tomato bread, little clams in garlic and oil - something else which I´ve forgotten because of the many bottles of white, red, and cava but I should have pictures. And my main course is my favourite new thing in the world to eat right now - fideua. Basically a paella but with pasta - little short, maybe inch and a half/3 cm length pieces of spaghetti-ish pasta. Mine was with way overcooked little langoustines - but the pasta had some nice little pockets of golden, crusty bits. And it´s served with a side of aioli. The party moved over to Ona´s - with one small scooter accident. Oliver and/or Ferran - the Terrible Twosome of El Bulli pastry - wiped out - after going like 3 feet/a meter. No injuries reported. Ona´s received us well - with forewarning of course. Every unofficial El Bulli party gets that courtesy. And per usual they pulled down the front gates at 03:00 sharp. And as per usual, the illegal after-party commenced within - or with-out in this case - on their back deck. And here´s where things start getting very Impressionist and Surreal. I remember some of the guys were jumped - good-naturedly of course - ha ha - and there was an ocean dunking - of the sous chefs and a couple of other guys. I had some serious slurred discussions with the sommelier. And Chris chivalrously - though alarmingly waveringly - escorted me home around 7 or 8. More on the last day later. I´m finally having dinner at Rafa´s in about 15 mintues.